Escaping Him
by SelfDestructIn54321
Summary: <html><head></head>Four gets a call in the middle of the night, saying a girl he's never met wants a ride home. He complies, discovers it's his childhood friend Tris, and takes her to his place to sleep, since she won't tell him her address. He also discovers the bruises and cuts raking her arms.</html>
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Tobias POV. Slighly OOC.**

"Hello?" I ask groggily, looking again at the unfamiliar number, "Who is this?"

"Is this Tobias Eaton?" Answers the guy at the other end.

"Depends. Who the fuck is this?"

"There's a girl here, she needs a ride home. She says you're her emergency contact."

"Where's 'here'?" I ask, throwing the covers off and looking for my pants. "What does she look like?"

"Blonde, dark eyes, really small," I don't know who he is describing, but continue to get dressed. I'd just take this girl to her house and _then _I could sleep.

"Where?"

He rattles off an address and after I finally find my clothes, I get in my car and set off.

It's a bar. Cute, tiny, place. There is a large sign in front sporting the name "Edward's". The sign is just small enough to annoy me. Nothing lights up, so I drive past it a few times before catch myself and park.

It's the same inside as it is outside. There are tiny circular tables, and small stools at the bar. The only people here are a muscular guy behind the bar serving tap water to a small, caramel-haired girl on a stool, and a middle-aged blonde wiping down the tables and collecting dishes.

I head over to the bar.

"Um, I'm looking for Al?" I say to the guy. He looks me over before scoffing under his breath like I can't hear him. My anger is rising, but I force it down. I just want to sleep, and beating this asshole isn't going to make that happen any faster.

"I'm Al," says the guy, "You're Tobias Eaton?"

The girl on the stool begins to laugh. Al's hand comes down on hers, which rests next to her water glass.

"Tris, please be quiet," he says quietly, as if talking to a child.

She stops laughing and exhales angrily.

"Tris?" I ask, bewildered.

She doesn't look at me. She does, however, pick up her glass, take a sip, and throw the rest of the liquid at Al's head. Then she turns, still not looking me in the eye, and says hoarsely, "Come on, Tobias, let's go."

I make no comment, hold out my hand, and help her off the stool. She grabs her messenger bag and we walk outside together.

. . .. . . . . .. . . . . . .. .. . .. . . . . . . . . . .. . . . .. . .. . . . . . .. . . . ..

"Where do you live?" I ask.

"I'm not telling you where I live," she replies

"Wha- so, am I supposed to guess?"

"I don't care, I'm just not going there."

I stare at her a minute before turning out of the bar's parking lot.

After a moment Tris asks quietly, "Where are we going?"

"My house," I say, "since you won't tell me where yours is."

Tris is silent the rest of the way. When we pull up, she silently follows me into the house. She goes to lie down on the couch, but I come out of my room with a blanket and two pillows. I help her up, lay down the bedding, and promptly flop down onto it. She raises her eyebrows.

"I can-"

"Don't even try it," I say, "you get the bed. Go on, you're probably tired."

She tries to hide a smile, but I can just barely see it on her pink lips. She wraps her arms around me in an uncharacteristic show of affection. I pat her back lightly and rest my chin on her shoulder, and somehow, it doesn't seem awkward.

When she pulls back, I catch at her wrist, and she gasps. I grab the sleeve of her dark brown turtleneck and pull it up to her elbow so fast that it tears a little. She tries to pull away. "Tobias," she half-whimpers, half-mutters. Her cheeks are red.

"Tris," I whisper blankly.

Her arm is covered in scars. There is a hand-shaped bruise along her wrist and the bottom of her hand, which was what caught my attention. Her flesh is ruined. Some of it is raised with white scars, most of it is bruised. A tiny bit of her porcelain skin still shows, but the rest is dried blood.

"Tris."

She sobs on air, though she's not crying, "Tobias, please," she whimpers, "not now."

I drop her arm, and she hurriedly pulls the sleeve of her sweater back down.

"Good night," she says firmly, and disappears into my bedroom.

. . .. . . .. . . .. . .. . . . . …. . . . . . . .. .. .. . .

I can't sleep. All I can think of is Tris, and not in a good way. I don't think of her hair and eyes and personality, but I think _'who the fuck did that, 'cause I want to murder them'_

If her arm looks like that, then how bad is the rest of her body?

And who the fuck did that?!

**Review if you want more! I might not update, 'cause my mom's in the hospital. My polyvore's on my bio. Also, thanks to my betas, pinkrose14, and alexmichele.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Beta'd by alexmichele and pinkrose14. The song is 78Violet/Little Notes. Enjoy. Review.**

Chapter 2

"Tris," I say, looking around helplessly. It's still dark outside, the blinds showing no light beyond them. I haven't even turned on a light. The hardwood floor is cold beneath my feet. I kick the bed. "Tris. Come on, wake the fuck up."

Tris whimpers, kicking out at nothing, her face a mask of distress. Her hands are up by her face, shielding it.

"Tris!" I exclaim, curling my hands into fists, "Tris, wake up!"

She lets out a sob, tears breaking free of tightly closed eyes, and in a moment, my pleading is interrupted by a scream.

Desperate, I grab the water from the bedside table and upend it over her head. She screams again when she sees me, scrambling backwards against the headboard. I put my hands up like a criminal and back away a few steps. She dives for the lamp on the nightstand, and it flicks on, illuminating the room.

"T-T-Tobias-" Tris starts, fresh tears staining her cheeks. "I-"

"Don't you dare say that you're sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for," I push my hands through my hair, "Are you . . . "

"I'm fine," Tris says, curling into a ball, chin on her knees, the gray comforter wrapped around her, "I'm sorry."

I sigh and close my eyes.

"C-can we just-" She has to stop before the new tears fall, biting her lip on a sob.

"Come on," I say, and turn to the door, opening it for her. She is trembling.

We walk into the kitchen, and I put a mug of water in the microwave. While it's heating up, I throw her a banana. She is skinny as shit. She peels it and takes a bite. When she does, I notice what she's wearing and quickly avert my eyes. She is in a black Arctic Monkeys tee shirt, one of mine, and fuzzy socks. The shirt just barely falls to middle of her thighs, probably 'cause she's tugging on it. The sleeves are rolled up exposing her bare her arms, which are still a shock to me. I remember when I was eighteen and she was sixteen, we went on a trip to the lake with both our families. I wore a shirt to the scars Marcus gave me, but she never changed into a bathing suit. Long sleeves all summer.

Who did that to her?

The microwave beeps, startling both of us. I let go of my white-knuckled grip on the counter and retrieve the mug. I fill it with hot cocoa mix and stir.

The clock proudly declares that it is four a. m., so I start a pot of coffee for myself. Tris never liked the stuff.

She accepts the mug, looking at the floor, and I take the banana peel from her, throwing it at my trash can. It makes it.

"Four-" Tris starts.

"It's okay," I say, "you can finish your drink first."

She blinks at me, smiles weakly, and brings the mug to her lips. She looks at the ground when she is not sneaking looks at me, which I studiously ignore. I look into space, thinking about her scars. Again. The clatter of her setting her glass on the bar makes me look at her. She is, surprise, studying my tiles. "Okay," she says. She is chewing on her bottom lip, and obviously afraid.

"Come on," I say, and lead her back to the bathroom connected to a guest room. I show her the guest room. It's empty, basically stored with shit I've yet to unpack, but it'll do. I tell her that she can stay here, and she nods, silent.

"I'll get a bed for you later today," I say, "and you can go shopping then too." She simply nods—again—at this, though I know shopping isn't her favorite pastime.

"What are we doing in here?" She asks, when I start digging through the cabinets in the bathroom.

I hand her a rag, after I soak it and wring out the water. "Take your makeup off," I say. She swallows, and studies the tub while she does.

Her face is a mask of bruises. She doesn't look at me. I wrestle around in the cabinet again, and get to work on her arms. Most of the time, no one abuses the arms or legs because they don't want to get caught. They usually target the torso and back. However when they do go for the arms and legs, it isn't some weird form of punishment, it's torture. Obviously, that's what was going on with Tris.

I first scrub away the dried blood. She doesn't make a sound, though I can imagine having her wounds cleaned hurts. I have her lean over the tub, and pour peroxide over her skin. She whimpers and bites her lip, hard, when I wipe the disinfectant off with a wet rag. After that, I spread a mixture of creams along her arm—for bruises, scars, and cuts. I then use up a whole box of band aids, wrist to elbow. After that an ace bandage, and her left arm is done.

Her right arm is easier to handle, 'cause she knew what to expect, and I knew what to do.

As I'm tending to her wounds, she talks, a little, mostly about meaningless things, like what I did for a living—construction—and the usual friends and girlfriends and shit like that, questions that you get from a sister—not that we were related. _We weren't even that close_, I thought, _I mean look at her bruises!_

_Shut up!_ I tell myself savagely. _This is not about you! _

As I am doing the second ace bandage up her arm, I spot a dark red outline on her shoulder, and tug the sleeve up. "Wait-" Tris immediately protests, tugging at my hands, but I have already seen.

Drawn out in jagged letters, staining deep into her porcelain skin, in dried blood is carved the word, "pathetic".

"Tris. . . . " I trail, blinking dazedly at the wound. She manages to stay quiet for about five minutes, biting down on her trembling bottom lip.

"I'm sorry," She blurts out, on a sob. "I told him, I told him I was sorry, he just . . . I was hungry. . . . "

"It's okay," I say, and she looks so lonely that I pull her into a soft hug. She holds on with a death grip, burying her face into my shirt. Tears stain the cotton. "I won't let him touch you ever again."

We stay like that for about five minutes. Then, she pulls back and lets me clean up the wound. I tape gauze over it, since the ace bandages won't fit around her shoulder, and I clean her face, before applying bruise cream. Then I grab her a fresh change of clothes and a towel from my room, hand them over, and return the kitchen for coffee and leftover chicken.

. . . . . .. . . . .. . . .. . . . . . .. . . .. . . . . . . . .. . . . . .. . . .. .

She sings. Loudly. I can hear the water running, but under her voice. Which is glorious. "I left you notes . . . on your bed . . . I left you notes . . . on your night stand . . . I wrote it on . . . the kitchen table, and better yet . . . 'refrigerator. . . . Gotta get out, gotta get out, gotta-gotta get out, gotta get out. Gotta get out. Since I'll never hold your hand now . . . my ghost will, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh. Since I'll never hold your hand now . . . my ghost will, ooh, ooh, oo-ooh."

It goes on, and my coffee is cold when she stops. I chug the rest of the coffee, and manage to start on another cup before she comes out with her hair wet. It's loose, dripping on her sweater. She's done up her makeup again, which I expected her to.

My eyebrows come together, but she speaks before I can ask.

"I put on more of that cream."

I smile a little. She's always correcting herself. "Okay, let's go."


End file.
